


death of the sun

by baelished



Category: Snowpiercer (TV 2020)
Genre: Blowjobs, Cumdump, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Reader-Insert, Riding, Rough Sex, Whore!Reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:15:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29055732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baelished/pseuds/baelished
Summary: Reader earns their keep aboard Big Alice by paying a visit to a conniving Mr. Wilford.Set during the events of season 2, episode 1.EDIT: I guess this is an AU now since Wilford veers ridiculously away from my interpretation in canon.
Relationships: Mr. Wilford/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	death of the sun

**Author's Note:**

> My partner suggested I title this “Nine hundred and ninety four cars schlong” and I couldn’t not put that in here somewhere. Anyway, the reader character in this story is a survivor on Alice who earns their keep aboard the train by whoring for Wilford (I haven’t used gendered terms in this fic, though reader does wear typically feminine clothes). 
> 
> Please note that there is a very quick mention of non-con as a passing thought, but no strong elements of it throughout. 
> 
> Additionally, I do not conform to the thoughts of this reader character re: Mr. Wilford. I know he is an evil man, a true representation of white male privilege. However, power play is a dynamic I love to explore, and I am very intrigued by Mr. Wilford’s character, Sean Bean’s portrayal, and the fact that he probably has whores at his beck and call. And he is so hot. But if you hate him, please proceed with caution as it is not my intention to upset anyone. 
> 
> PS: I have taken a leaf out of HBO’s book in capitalizing the pronoun “He” in reference to Mr. Wilford. When I was watching 1.10 with subtitles on HBO, I found this choice a super compelling way to explain his power over every person left on earth, even if they reject it. I have borrowed it to step further into reader’s state of mind.
> 
> Title from Hozier’s “Wasteland, Baby!”

He calls you to Him like He would on any other night. 

And for Him, maybe it _is_ any other night. After all, He’s been waiting for this since the beginning, and perhaps being one step closer—one _train_ closer—is merely part of His plan. No matter if their society is in shambles; _His_ isn’t, and what is control to Him but a game He’s already championed? 

So you knock on His door as _Alice_ glides her steady waltz through the outskirts of a forgotten Chicago on the rickety tail of _Snowpiercer._

“Come in,” His deep voice echoes through the walls, grinds right up against your double-timed heart. You step inside and your lungs fill greedily with the steady, familiar scent of incense wafting through His quarters, a smell fit for the royalty He is. “Be a dear and lock the door for me, would you?”

You always do, even though He has the ultimate foresight and impeccable timing to send Alex away and scatter all guards before you arrive. The lock clicks into place, a little chime that your body recognizes as the telltale noise that precedes sex. Your groin stirs, a gentle thrum of arousal igniting between your legs. 

Jupiter stirs, lifting her sleek head to eye you when you step inside. Recognizing you and determining you still don’t pose a threat, she gives a quiet huff and crosses her glossy black paws over each other. She’s a sweetheart beneath her guard-dog aura, and she lets you ruffle her velvet ears. You don’t know what goes through her canine head, but she stays quiet while you’re in Wilford’s chambers, only listening alertly for intruders from outside the car and staying still otherwise. She sniffs indignantly at your little skirt for a moment, then loses interest. 

You come in uniform to fuck Him. It had been His idea at the beginning, giving you specific clothes to wear in the bedroom, making you dress up how He likes. Sometimes He leaves all your clothes on, pushed to the side or ripped; sometimes they’re strewn in pieces about the floor. Whenever the uniform is damaged, a crisp new set crops up in your closet overnight; reminds you that to Him, you’re nothing but a whore and your only job is to please Him. 

“Good evening, Mr. Wilford,” you say, voice carrying in His mansion-esque suite. He’s lounged in the back of His quarters on a burgundy velvet chair not unlike a throne, slippered feet plateaued on a footrest, hands clasped in His lap. He dons one of His slippery silk robes, the ones that brush sleek-soft against your skin, reminding you of the power and wealth He has at His fingertips, and the hint of that luxury He teases against you with each cant of his hips. 

“Indeed so,” He says cheerily, lifting His head, teeth glinting white like glazed pearls against His skin. 

You wait patiently with your hands tethered to your sides, fingertips tapping against your thighs, wondering where He’s going to direct you. To the couch, where He’ll fuck you like a heaving madman; to His bed, where He’ll close His eyes and you’ll grit your teeth, knowing He’s imagining your cunt as someone else’s; in the Engineer’s chair with your back to the frozen wasteland of the world as He sinks His teeth into the supple skin of your neck? 

He gets His pleasure and you get yours—simple as that. He doesn’t need to pay you with a high class life, knows you’re fond enough of Him and His cock to fuck him for free; but He does ensure your belly is constantly full and you’re free to live as you please, so long as you come when He calls. 

And you always do. 

“Come here,” He says. It’s casually spoken, yet you know it’s an order, quick-spun and demanding, written out and ticketed only for you. You nod politely and obey, feet stepping smooth on the downy rug covering much of the wood floor. 

As you approach him, you are struck as always by His largeness. He’s not an overly big man in stature, but there is something huge that radiates off Him in waves, markets itself as superior, something strong and kingly. He takes up the whole of the huge room even when He’s pressed into the corner. He could speak one word and the world would crumble; raise His fist and break any barrier before Him. 

_So why are we piggybacking_ Snowpiercer? you wonder idly, then snap to attention as you reach where He sits, standing before Him with your breath hitched in little gasps of anticipation. He looks you over, a small smirk flirting with His wrinkle-worn cheek, and grasps your hips, pulling you down so you’re sitting square on His lap, legs dangling on either side of the plush chair. 

“So, sweetheart,” He drawls in that bitter-honeyed voice, deep-set eyes twinkling. He drips poison from His very skin, and you can’t help but get closer. “Here we are again.” He grasps your thighs tightly, massive hands digging into your legs hard enough to purple the skin beneath His nails. You groan at the pressure, the slight pinch of pain, and let Him claim you. 

His grip is relentless, keeping you pinned tightly to his lap. You reach a hand up to stroke over His beard, thumb dipping into the creases of wrinkles at His cheek. His scruff is scratchy-soft, a welcome texture in your palm. Flecks of silver-gray dust His chin, and you run your fingers over them, mapping out the years on His face. He lets you touch Him, even leans into your hand, but His eyebrows are set low on His face and you can sense His anticipation in the air, can feel it in His quivering thighs, near ready to boil over. 

He kisses you then, a fierce movement of sharp teeth clashing against your lips. You let your mouth fall open and pliant, knowing there is no upper hand when it comes to kissing Him. He takes what He wants, same as sex, same as survival. His teeth gnash sharply against your bottom lip, digging into the gums and leaving imprints of Him inside your willing mouth. You let out a little squeak at the pressure-pricked pain, but lean into Him even deeper. 

You grind down against Him, searching for His cock beneath His robe, aching to feel it hardening beneath you. He stills you immediately with His hands heavy on your hips, a stern look crossing over His grizzled face: eyebrows raised thick, mouth a thin shell-pink line. A reminder that you are on _His_ time, that you’re _His_ to do with as He pleases. 

He dips a finger beneath your skirt, eyes flickering dark as He finds you bare and dripping beneath the thin fabric. 

“Have you lost your undergarments, love?” He asks, the gentle pad of His thumb rubbing warm and firm against your pulsing clit. You choke out a little whine at the touch, back flexing in an attempt to press down harder onto His hand. He stills His movements, looking at you coldly. His lips purse in something between annoyance and anger. “Answer me.”

“No, no, Sir,” you say, body frantic for Him to keep going. You try to quell the shivers that snake down your spine despite the heat radiating off His body. “I thought...I thought you might like it. Saves us a step.”

He considers this for a moment, narrowing His eyes, and you envision that you can see the gears in that genius head turning quick-time. And then He smiles. “Well, you do always soak them through by the time we get here.” 

He’s right, and you know He relishes that he makes you so wet. He could have found anyone, _forced_ anyone, but there must be something even more powerful, something _primal_ in the fact that He can barely begin to touch you and already you’re dripping for Him. 

You owe Him your survival, your very life, but that’s not what draws your body to him. Nor is it His penchant for control, though of course both are bonus benefactors. He is so wickedly _handsome_ , grizzled around the edges, with His sultry smile and fluttering muscles, His heavy-hard body and the fat cock that makes your legs weak at the mere thought of it. If you could have your pick of the train, you’d choose Him. If he _wasn’t_ Mr. Wilford, you’d choose Him. 

Luckily for you, He _is_ Mr. Wilford, a fact you’re reminded of as He slicks two thick fingers inside you, pressing deep and rough and jostling your whole body. You’re wet enough that the slide is effortless, though you know He wouldn’t stop if it wasn’t. Sometimes you wonder if you’re too easy for Him, if He’d prefer someone with some reservations so He could pose his power on full display, but He seems to like it this way—likes that you worship the ground He walks on, that you go all wobbly-weak for Him. 

You wrap an arm around His neck for balance as He wriggles and twists His fingers inside you, your vision bursting into blurs. You mewl against His cheek, nose pressed against the shadow of His beard, gasping for breath. He normally likes it hard and fast like this, but today He fucks you on His fingers with something stronger, like He’s searching within you, like you’re a vessel for His own personal treasure hunt. 

“Fucking _gushing_ for me today, mm, darling?” He says, a low growl from His throat. “Precious slut, making it all easy.” He laughs, curving His fingers in you so full you clench around Him, swallowing Him to the knuckles, crying out loudly enough that your throat throbs from the intensity of it. “Tell me how much you want it. C’mon. Let me hear you.”

“Please, Mr. Wilford,” you whine, trying to bounce on His hand, but He has you trapped by the hip, denying you any movement. His breath is fireflame-hot against your face. “I want you.”

“What?” he says. He always plays this game when He’s not satisfied with your answer, wants it louder, dirtier, deeper. If He likes your reply, you’ll know. If He doesn’t, He’ll keep playing until your cheeks are crimson and you can barely choke out a sentence. He’s already steadied His fingers, moving more like tickles than thrusts, and you wail at the sudden adjustment. 

“I want your cock in me,” you plead, voice rubbed raw from the screams He’s already pulled out of you. An orgasm dances within reach, if He’d just shove in deep one more time instead of thrusting shallow and slow…

“My _what_?” He asks, glaring at you in a way that makes you want to hide from Him, cower in fear and beg for freedom. “I shouldn’t have to fucking ask; you _know_ that.”

“Your big fucking cock, Mr. Wilford,” you whine, knowing that's what He wants to hear, what He _needs_ to hear, but it makes your cheeks ignite, hot and harrowed saying those words out loud to Him, letting them hang in the air between you. But it gets you a reward, His thumb flicking over your clit once, twice, encouraging you to keep going despite the shame pricking against your skin. “I want you to split me open with it, fucking own me, make me fucking cry.”

“Bet I can do that already, sweetheart,” He says with a shit-spun smile, and you melt against Him, absolutely twisted in His grasp. He slips another finger inside you, stuffing you full, and your head lolls forward onto His shoulder, your breaths breaking in short, stuttered gasps as He thrusts hard and greedy, searching, commanding. In His movements, there’s a tension that isn’t always there, a subtle anger like He’s about to explode, slamming into you with all the strength of His arm, His fingertips so deep you wonder if you’ll bleed and break. And then He starts rubbing over your clit, and you thank Him silently that He enjoys this enough, finds his own pleasure in giving you yours, wants to make you come just because He fucking _can_ , and that’s the last coherent thought your mind can manage before your pleasure overflows, bliss from the inside out, slamming your body into rolling spasms, your cunt clenching so tight you can feel the creviced wrinkles of skin on His fingers. 

“Mr. Wilford…” you manage to squeak out, the syllables falling from your mouth on their own, praising the man who made you feel this way. And He was right: tears brim in the rims of your eyes, threaten to spill down your reddened cheeks. 

He shoves your head away from His shoulder, not wholly unkindly, and you’re struck by the aggression in His eyes. It’s not directed at you, but you sense now that this little session is a way for Him to process _Alice_ ’s attachment to _Snowpiercer_ , to repurpose His feelings, to take His mind someplace more pleasant. He’s always ready to pounce beneath His exuberant aura, and you catch a flash that He’s testing that readiness through the vessel of you. 

He slips His fingers out of you, glances at them as He lifts them to the light. The three digits glisten white-crystal with your cum, sticky from fingertip to knuckle. He examines them with narrowed eyes, then takes His fingers to His mouth one at a time. He’s never done this before, and the fact He deems you worthy enough to taste makes your sore pussy pound all over again, your ragged breath hitch in awe. He watches you as He sucks, cleaning His fingers until all trace of you on His skin is vanished. 

“Quite delicious,” He says approvingly once He’s finished. “A sample I wouldn’t mind partaking of more often.” He leans back, watching you with calculating eyes. “I believe, though, that you wanted my cock.”

“Yes, Sir,” you say quickly, nodding. You notice that not a strand of hair is out of place, and He’s only broken a light sweat on His temple, one you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t looking for it. How can He make your whole world echo in the throes of exaltation without hardly exerting any of Himself? 

But the answer is simple. He’s Mr. Wilford. 

“Then what are you waiting for?” He growls, the words fire off His tongue, your skin lighting with fresh hot shame at displeasing Him. He shoves you off Him, pushes you to the floor by your head. “Get on your knees and _suck_.”

You scramble to unfasten His robe, the belt slipping between your fingers. He allows you a hint of help, leaning forward so the robe falls open, revealing the spattering of chestnut-gray hair over His chest and down His stomach, ending at the waistband of His black silk underwear. The material is like velvet under your skin as you hook your fingers into it and ease it down. He kicks it off idly, but you barely register it—your focus is held by His cock. 

You chose your adjectives carefully when describing it to Him, and you weren’t wrong on any account. It’s big, even though it’s only just begun to harden, thatched in a nest of wiry hair, thick and long all the way to His heavy balls. Your mouth waters at the sight of it, your cunt begs to be filled again. You take it in your hand, testing the weight of it and stroking back the foreskin to expose the pearly-wet head. You open your mouth to suck, but He grasps your head and forces you down on it, knocking the air out of you. 

“Fucking— _take_ —it,” He hisses, tangling His fingers in your hair for leverage, guiding you up and down with a force more powerful than you can fathom. “I _know_ you can, sweetheart.”

So you take it: you have no other choice. You desperately try to relax your throat, but there’s no air, nothing but His thick cockhead hardening at the back of your throat. “That’s it,” He croons, though you aren’t doing anything other than obeying, keeping your head bowed and your mouth held wide. You try to slide your tongue along His length, slick over the pulsing veins beneath His foreskin, and you manage to sneak several licks in before He pushes in deep and stays there, paralyzing your tongue beneath the tip. His hips stutter, and He holds there for one second, two, three, then pulls out completely. Your spit sticks to the glistening head, drool drips down His cock, and when you look up at Him, He’s grinning a wolfish smile, all teeth and vigor. There’s hunger in that gaze, though you aren’t sure it’s wholly for you. Rather, for what you represent: the submission and the promise of total control Wilford maintains over the world with a simple wave of His hand. 

Maybe if you had a different life, had lived longer in the _Before_ , you wouldn’t be so quick to submit. But kneeling before Him, with sessions of whoring for Him under your belt and knowing you’ve yet to find anything finer left on Earth than _Him_ , coupled with the awe and gratitude you offer Him for who He is: Wilford, maker of the World—you know this is all you want. 

He tugs on your hair, drags you back onto His cock. You gag around it, unable to lax your muscles completely before your mouth is full. This time, He bucks His hips and thrusts up into your mouth instead of moving your head—the change gives Him more leverage to hit the back of your throat on every push, and above the blood throbbing in your head, your ears pick up the low sounds of Him grunting with arousal. The salty-sweet tang of Him in your mouth only serves to pull you further under His spell, an endless desire to serve Him. Deep, rumbling hums of His pleasure make you open your mouth wider, sore jaw shaking from the pressure. Wetness drips between your legs—being manhandled, controlled, forced to accept power at its source has your body rippling with eagerness, with pleasure despite the pounding of pain in the muscles of your mouth. 

And then as suddenly as He started, He pulls out again, the sudden emptiness seizing a cough from deep in your throat. He waits until you’re able to swallow enough air to breathe, and then He’s grabbing you, forcing you onto His lap with an iron grip tight on your arms. Your legs, still numb and quivering from your earlier orgasm, fall around His hips. 

“I think you deserve this, don’t you?” He muses, a laugh brewing behind his words, mirth dripping from His mouth. His eyes are bright and shining, glinting in the dimmed light of the train car. You nod, and He chuckles a deep _“ha!”_ from the back of His throat. “That’s what I thought. Up.” He raises His hand and wiggles His fingers, inviting you to hover above Him. He hikes your skirt up, bunching it around your waist, and guides you onto His cock. 

No matter how many times He breaches you, you’re always surprised by the intensity of His thick cock inside you. He stuffs you full, stretches your cunt so wide you worry in some back corner of your mind that He’ll break you. As you lower yourself towards His hips, ecstasy ignites you, moans spilling from your lips, watching Him in awe as He gazes at you with half-lidded, eagle-sharp eyes. 

Once you’re fully seated on Him, whining from the depth, fingers sewn to His shoulders, He leans forward and whispers against your neck, huge hands wrapped around your hips. “I’ve already done the work, dearest. Now it’s your turn. Earn your keep.” And He leans back against His chair, raising an eyebrow in earnest, dropping His hands into fists atop the plush armrests of His throne. 

So you ride Him with trembling, tired thighs, not sure what He’ll do if you don’t find the strength to continue. Determined, you clasp your hands tighter on His broad shoulders, gripping for dear life as you move on His cock steadily, up and down with wild rolls of your hips when you’re seated securely on His lap. 

The wetness makes the slide easy, sinking onto His cock again and again, feeling the tip coax itself deep inside you. Your legs wobble but you keep going, determined to follow His orders, obey every word from His mouth. You’ve never disobeyed Him, and you aren’t keen to find out what happens should you displease this behemoth of a man. 

His swollen cock throbs inside you, and you swear you can feel it moving in your _stomach_ , so raw and deep. You lean forward towards Him, try to sneak a kiss against His lips, but He ignores you and goes for your neck, nibbling and nipping at the soft skin. His eyes are closed, low groans drawing from His mouth in rhythm, and you think that He might very well be imagining someone else, some girl from His past with a cunt tighter and wetter, skin softer and legs more powerful bouncing atop His lap. 

You shove the envy aside; it rears its head every so often when His eyes go glassy and distant or when He kisses you a little too hard, and you know you’re lucky to fuck Him at all. But only _you_ can do this: fulfill His fantasies with fertile obedience and a willing, weeping cunt, being whoever He needs you to be. His teeth are sharp at your neck—you’ll come away with bruises, you know, like little personal _W_ s carved into your skin, though they’re angry blood-violet and blue-veined bites and fingerprints rather than letters. 

Yet you wear them proudly like they spell out “Property of Wilford Industries” on your body. 

“That’s it,” He hisses against your neck, open-mouthed, voice dripping with venom. “Ride my cock, sweetheart. Just like that.” His tongue snakes out to lick at the throbbing bites He’s left on your neck, the warm, wet muscle a soothing force over your skin. You shiver, and push yourself harder, riding Him with more control over your movements, His cock so deep and thick your pussy aches. If you didn’t know better, you’d be sure that you’re about to split in two. 

“Mr. Wilford,” you whine, so light it’s almost a whisper, a prayer. He chuckles at the sound of His name, like it’s music to His ears. He must never tire of hearing it, of seeing it plastered everywhere He turns an eye. 

Your clit throbs and begs for attention, orgasm floating somewhere out in the space of your sex-addled mind. You reach a hand down to rub over it, just one or two quick touches to bring yourself to the edge, but He grasps your wrist and pins it behind your back, angry lines creased across His forehead, teeth gritted into a white line. He looks at you like He’s about to strike you down in a single blow. 

“You come on my cock or not at all.” It’s a command, an order, barked bare and bristling. 

“Yes, Mr. Wilford,” you say, the words making your cunt drool all over again, His cock sliding in slicker, moans catching in your throat before you can make a noise more coherent than a strangled cry. 

“Come on, you can do better than that,” He breathes out, lips barely moving but to grin. “Come for me.” His eyes flicker with power, a sleazy, searing smile digging into his cheeks. “Come from the sound of my voice, from the cock you wanted inside you _so very badly_. Come. Now.”

You sink the single hand you have still grounded into His shoulder deeper into the freckled skin, lifting yourself up and slamming back down so hard it _hurts_ where His cock tips into your cervix. The pain marries the pleasure, your head spinning, your whole world nothing but Mr. Wilford—the tantalizing scent of alcohol tainting His breath; the warm skin of His legs brushing against your bare thighs; the grunts buried deep in His throat; the pulsing of His cock as it hits there, _there_ , yes, right _there_ —

Your orgasm bursts upon you, stars sprinkling behind your eyes. You let yourself sink all the way down on His cock as release rolls through you, cunt spasming around the thickness of it. “Mr. Wilford…fuck…” Your voice is weak, yet a praise, a thank-you nonetheless. Your head falls lazily against His shoulder as you ride it out, sweaty body shivering against Him. And then you’re being jostled back as he plants His hands tight on your sides and holds you down, thrusting into you with quick pumps of his hips. 

“Say my name,” He orders, barking the command loud and close to your ear, your head filled with His whiskey-thick voice. His hips stutter against your body. 

“Mr. Wilford,” you gasp, watching Him, His eyes fluttering shut and His mouth hanging open, teeth very white against the rose garden of His tongue. 

“That’s it, _ahh,_ ” He murmurs, and you whine and claw against Him as He releases inside you, white-warm cum pumping into your ruined cunt. You feel it emptying inside you, His cock pulsing until He’s spent. He strokes a thumb idly over your hips, a gentle gesture for Him, and you revel in His touch, the softness of His hands. 

He sits there for a moment, breathing hard like He’s just ran laps up and down the train. You wonder if you should be proud that you made Him feel like this, or is it simply power that makes Him come, your body nothing but a vessel so He doesn’t have to clean up afterwards?

He lifts you up like you weigh nothing, guides His cock out of you with a dirty squelching sound. You moan softly as His cum starts to drip out of you, passing your pussy lips and trailing down the tops of your thighs. And then suddenly His fingers swipe over it, pushing it back into your cunt. 

“Should’ve worn the panties, hm?” He says, laughter dancing in His eyes. His fingers press into the tightening passage, deep enough to make your groin swell again. “Ha.”

When He’s satisfied, he pulls His fingers out and you try to clench the muscles, trapping His cum inside you. He gives you a curt nod, inviting you to stand up. He stays seated, hands gripping the arms of His chair like He’s glued there, like nothing is worth His time in getting up. 

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Wilford?” you ask, heart pounding. A dribble of cum sticks to your thighs. 

“That will be all,” He says, blinking. “For now.” A smile spreads warmly across His face. “Don’t forget your pills on the way out.” 

You nod, tugging your skirt down over your ass. “Thank you, Mr. Wilford.”

And then He says something He’s never said to you before:

“Thank _you_.”

**Author's Note:**

> If further episodes fuck with this fic or I feel the need to rework his character as we learn more about him, I may revisit this fic in a rewrite. We’ll see what happens!


End file.
